That chance came, as he had hoped it would come. With Pete Zapata, Hy Miller, Pike Purcell, Lamport and Collins, he was riding down into the valley when they saw Bat Chavez and the two Bishop riders approaching. Had Harper led his party along the trail where they had started, the paths of the two groups would not have intersected, but Harper reined in and waited.
Chavez wasn't the man to ride around trouble. In Lew Murray and Johnny Stark he had two companions who had never ridden around anything that even resembled trouble. With guns loosened in holsters, they rode steadily on.
"Howdy!" Bat Chavez said. His eyes swung and fastened on Pete Zapata. "Where you ridin'?"
"Who's askin'?" Purcell demanded truculently. "We go where we want."
"Not on this range, you don't. You stick to your valley. This here's Bishop range."
"He own everything?" Miller demanded. "We ride where we please!"
"Looks like you been ridin' where somebody else pleased," Johnny Stark said, grinning. "In fact, that face looks like somebody rid all over you with spikes in his boots."
Miller's face flamed. "There was three of "em!" he snapped. "You couldn't do it. I think it's time we taught you Bishop riders a lesson, anyway."
"You mean," Chavez demanded insolently, "like that murderin' breed that shot Wes Freeman--in the back?"
Zapata's hand flashed for his gun, and Chavez was scarcely slower. Only the jerk of Zapata's horse's head saved him. As it was the horse took the bullet right through the head, and leaped straight up into the air, jerking Zapata's gun and spoiling his aim.
There was a sudden flurry of gunshots, and Mort Harper was quick to sense his chance. He drew his six-shooter and calmly shot Collins through the back.
The attack broke as quickly as it began. Zapata's horse had leaped, then hit the ground, stone dead. Thrown from the horse, Zapata lost his gun and sprawled in the grass, showing no desire to get up and join the fight or even hunt for his gun.
Outnumbered, and with Murray shot through the leg, the Bishop riders drew off. Purcell had been burned along the cheek, and Miller's horse was killed, so the battle ended after only a few seconds, with two horses and one man dead. In the excitement, only Mort Harper saw the flare of pained astonishment and accusation in Collins's eyes.
The blacksmith's mouth refused to shape words, and he died there in the grass. Harper looked down at him, a faint smile on his face. Collins had been a popular man, quiet and well liked. This would do what all Harper's other plans had failed to do.
"Collins got it?" Pike stood over him, his hard face saddened. "He was a good man." Of them all, Collins was the only man in the wagon train Pike Purcell had known before the trip began. They had come through the war together.
"Might's well bury him, I guess," Mort said.
Pike looked up. "No, we'll tote him back home. His widow'll want to see him. Reckon it'll go hard with her."
Mort Harper's lips thinned, but there was nothing he could say without arousing suspicion. Silently, the little cavalcade started back. Collins's body was tied to Pike's horse, and he walked alongside, trailed by Zapata and Miller.
For two days ominous quiet hung over the town of Poplar. Collins had been buried, and the faces of the settlers as they gathered about to see his body lowered into the grave proved to Harper how right he had been. No longer was there any doubt or hesitation. Now they were in the fight. He had walked back from that grave filled with triumph. Only a few days longer, and then he would begin the war in earnest.
Tom Crockett was a quiet man, but his face was stern and hard as he walked back home beside Sharon. "Well, we tried to avoid it, but now it's war," he said. "I think the sooner we have some action the better."
Sharon said nothing, but her heart was heavy within her. She no longer thought of Mort Harper. His glamour had faded, and always now, there was but one man in her thoughts, the tall, shy, hesitant Rock Bannon.
She always marveled that a man so hard, so sure of himself with men, horses or guns, could be so quiet and diffident with women. As a matter of fact, Rock Bannon had never seen any woman but an Indian squaw until he was eighteen years old, in Santa Fe.
Rock Bannon had never talked to a woman until he was twenty. Now he was twenty-seven, and he had probably talked to no more than six or seven white women or girls.
With deepening sadness and pain, she realized the killing of Collins had done all they had hoped to avoid. There would be war now, and knowing her father as she did, she knew the unrelenting stubbornness in him once he was resolved upon a course. She had seen him like this before. He always sought to avoid trouble, always saw the best in people, yet when the battle line was laid down, no man would stay there longer than Tom Crockett.
Only one man was silent on the walk back from the grave. Dud Kitchen, weak and pale from his own narrow escape, was out for the first time. He was very tired, and he was glad when he was back in the Pagones's house and could lie down and rest. He was up too soon, he knew, but Collins had been his friend. Now, lying alone in the gathering darkness and hearing the low mutter of men's voices in the other room, he was sorry he had gone.
He had gone over to the Collins house to see his old friend once before he was buried, and he was there when the widow and Satterfield had dressed him in his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. He saw something then that filled the whole inside of him with horror. He saw what none of them seemed to have noticed, that Collins had been shot in the back! Yet he had seen something more than that, and it was that thing that disturbed him.
Dud Kitchen was a friendly, cheerful young man who liked nothing better than to sing and play the mandolin. Yet in his life, from Missouri to Texas, he had had more than a little experience with guns. Once, too, he had gone down the river to New Orleans, and he had learned many things on that trip.
Among other things he knew the dragoon Colt had the impact of an ax and would blow a hole in a man big enough to run a buffalo through, or so it was phrased on the frontier. The hole in Collins had been much smaller at the point of entry; it had been wide and ugly at the point of exit.
Opening the door between the living room-kitchen of the Pagones's house, Pike walked in to look at Dud. "Better get yourself well, Dud," Pike said. "We'll need all hands for this fuss."
"Was it bad, Pike?" Kitchen asked. His voice was faint, and in the dim light Pike could not see what lay in the younger man's eyes.
"No, I figure it wasn't so bad," Pike said. "Only a few shots fired. It was over so quick I scarce got my gun out. That Bat Chavez, him and Zapata were fastest, but Pete's horse swung around and spoiled his aim for him. Guess it saved his life, though, 'cause Bat's bullet hit the horse right in the head. Between the eyes.
"The horse rared up and throwed Pete, and I jumped my horse away to keep from gettin' in a tangle. Lamport, he scored a shot on one of them other fellows. We seen him jerk and seen the blood on him as they were ridin' off"
Dud Kitchen waited a long moment, then he said carefully: "Who killed Collins?"
Purcell seemed to scowl. "Don't rightly know. There was a sight of shootin' goin' on. Might have been any one of them three. Don't you worry about that. We'll get all three of fhem, so we won't miss gettin' the right one."
"Have they got good guns?" Dud asked. "I'll bet they have!"
"Same as us. Dragoon Colts. One of 'em had an old Walker, though. Big gun, too. Shoots like a rifle."
After Pike Purcell had gone Dud Kitchen lay alone in the dark room, thinking. His thought frightened him, and yet, he was himself down from a shot by Zapata, who was on their own side. Collins had been shot in the back.
Whatever he had been shot by, Dud Kitchen was willing to take an oath it had been neither a Walker nor a dragoon Colt. The hole was much smaller. The chest of the man had been frightfully torn. Sometimes men cut their bullets off flat across the nose to make them kill better. Dud had seen that done. It usually tore a man up pretty bad.
Chapter VI
Johnny Stark brought the news
of the fight to Rock Bannon. He was with Bishop at the time, and the old man's face hardened.
"Well, there it is, Rock! We can't give them any more time now. They've had their chance, and from now on she'll be open warfare." Bishop looked up at Stark. "Take six men back with you. Have Monty go with the buckboard and bring Lew here to the ranch house, where he can have proper care. You tell Red I want to see him, but he'll be in charge when he goes back."
Rock got up and paced the floor. He ran his fingers through his shock of black, curly hair. His face was stern and hard. He knew what this meant. One man had gone down, Johnny said. From his description of the man it would be Collins, one of the good men. That would serve to unite the settlers in a compact lot. Despite all his desire to avoid trouble, they were in for it now, and it would be a case of dog eat dog. What would Sharon think of all this?
Hastily, he computed the numbers at the townsite. Their numbers were still slightly inferior to those on the Bishop ranch, but due to expected Indian trouble and the stock, many of the Bishop hands must remain on the far ranges.
"I'm going out," he said at last. "I'm going down to Poplar. Also, I'm going to have a look in that canyon where Harper's stuff was cached."
"You watch yourself, boy!" Bishop said. He heaved himself up in his chair. "You take care! I'm figurin' on you havin' this ranch, and I ain't wantin' to will it to no corpse."
Rock hurried down to the corral and saw Johnny Stark leading out the steel-dust, all saddled and ready.
"I figured you'd be ridin', Rock," he said grimly. He handed the reins to him and started to turn away, then he stepped back.
"Rock," he said, "somethin' I been goin' to tell somebody. I forgot to mention it back there. Rock, I don't think any of us killed Collins!"
Bannon wheeled and grabbed the cowhand by the arm. His eyes were like steel. "What do you mean? Give it to me, quick!"
"Hey!" Johnny said. "Ease up on that arm!" He grinned. "You got a grip like a bear trap." He rubbed his arm. "Why, I been thinkin' about that ever since. Bat was thinkin' only of Zapata. I shot at that Miller, the guy you whipped. I got his horse. Lew, he burned that long lean mountain man along the cheek, tryin' for a head shot. Actually, this here Collins hombre was off to our left. None of us shot that way."
"You're sure about that?" Bannon demanded.
His mind was working swiftly. If one thing would arouse anger against Bishop among the settlers, it would be the killing of one of their own number, and particularly one so well liked as Collins had been.
Bannon stared at the rider. "Did you see anybody near him? Who was over at that side?"
"This here Collins hombre who got shot was in the front rank," Johnny said. "Then there was a heavyset, sandy sort of guy with a beard, and a tall hombre in a white hat with a dark coat."
The bearded man would be Lamport, the man in the white hat was Mort Harper.
Rock Bannon swung a leg over the saddle. "Johnny, you tell Red to sit tight," he said. "I'm riding to Poplar."
"Want me along?" Stark asked eagerly. "You better take some help. Those hombres are killin' now. They're in a sweat, all of them."
Rock shook his head. "No, I'll go alone," he said. "Tell Red to wait at the cabin."
Rock wheeled the gray and cut across the valley. There was still a chance to avoid a battle if he could get to Poplar in time, yet he had a feeling that Harper would not wait. Hostilities had begun, and that was what he had been playing for all the time. Now he had his excuse to wipe out the Bishop forces, and he would be quick to take advantage of it.
Yet before he was halfway down the valley, he reined in on the slope of a low hill. Miles to the south he could see a group of horsemen cutting across toward the line cabin. Bat Chavez was there, alone with the wounded Murray.
Red would be starting soon, but would get there too late to help Bat or Murray. Within a matter of half an hour they would be attacking. From where he was it would take him all of that time and probably more to reach them. There was no time to go back. Wheeling the stallion, he started down the valley, angling away from the group of riders.
In the distance, around the peaks towering against the sky, dark clouds were banking. A jagged streak of lightning ripped the horizon to shreds of flame, then vanished, and there was a distant roll of thunder, muttering among the dark and distant ravines like the echoes of distant battle.
The gray horse ran through the tall grass, sweeping around groves of aspen and alder, keeping to the low ground. He splashed through a swale, crested a long, low hill that cut athwart the valley, and turned at right angles down the draw toward the cover of the far-off trees. The cool wind whipped against his face, and he felt a breath of moist wind as it shifted, feeling for the course of the storm.
The big horse was running smoothly, liking the feel of running, as he always did, letting his powerful muscles out and stretching them. Leaning forward to break the wind and let the weight of his body help the running horse, Rock Bannon talked, speaking softly to the stallion. He knew it loved his voice, for between the horse and man there was that companionship and understanding that come between a man and horse only when they have known many trails together, have shared the water of the same creeks, and run over long swells of prairie as they were running now.
Yet then he heard the distant sound of a rifle, and then a roll of shots.
"Bat, I hope to heaven you're under cover!" he muttered. "I hope they didn't surprise you!"
He eased the horse's running now, because he might rush upon some of them sooner than he expected. He slid his rifle from the scabbard and raced into the trees. The sound of firing was nearer now. He slowed the horse to a walk, letting him take a blow, his eyes searching the brush. There was still some distance to go, but there was firing, and that meant that Bat was under cover. They had not caught him flatfooted, at least.
He swung the horse up into the rocks and slid from the saddle, easing forward to the rim of the shelf overhanging the line cabin. Lying face down among the rocks, he could see puffs of smoke from the brush around the cabin. Waiting until he saw a gleam of light on a rifle, he fired.
Almost instantly, a man some distance away leaped up and started to run for a boulder. Swinging the rifle, Rock snapped a shot at him and the man went to his knees, then started to crawl for shelter.
A rifle bellowed down below and a shot glanced off a rock, kicking splinters into Bannon's face. He eased back and worked down the slope a bit, studying the situation below. One man at least was wounded.
Suddenly, a horseman leaped a horse from behind some trees, and, dragging a flaming mass of brush, raced toward the cabin. It was a foolhardy thing to do, but instantly, Bannon saw his purpose, for the rifle fire had attracted Bat Chavez to the other side of the cabin. Rock lifted his own rifle and steadied it. A flashing instant of aim, then he fired.
The horseman threw up his arms and toppled back off the horse, right into the mass of flaming brush. He screamed once, horribly, then rolled clear, fighting the fire in his garments and dragging himself in the dust. Another man rushed from the brush to aid him, and Rock held his fire.
Suddenly, there was a heavy roll of thunder. Looking around, he saw the clouds had come nearer, and now there was a sprinkle of rain. At the same instant he heard the pounding of horses' hoofs. Snapping a quick shot at the brush, he was in time to hear a startled yell and then the attackers broke from the brush and, scrambling to their saddles, charged away across the valley, and then the rain broke with a thundering roar, a veritable cloudburst.
Rushing to the gray, he swung into the saddle and put the animal around to a steep slide of shale, and rode down to the barn near the corral. Johnny rushed up to him.
"You all right?"
"Yeah. How's Bat?"
"Don't know. Bat went in. You go ahead. I'll fix your horse up."
Rock sprinted for the house and got in, slamming the door after him. Bat looked around, grinning widely.
"Man, was I glad to hear that rifl
e of yours!" he said. "They had me surrounded. Lew wanted to get into it, but I was afraid his wound would open and start bleedin' again. Well, we drove 'em off."
"You get anybody?"
"Scratched a couple. Maybe got one. You got one that first shot. I seen him fall. That'll be one down and two bad hurt, maybe four. Looks like we come out of that on top."
"I was headed for Poplar and saw them. I was afraid you'd be outside and they'd split up on you."
Chavez spat. "They mighty near did. I'd just been to the spring for water."
Rock stared into the fire. This would mean nothing one way or another. They had been turned back from the first attack, but they would not be convinced. He had killed a man, and who it was would matter a great deal, he knew. Certainly if it was another of the settlers he would have small chance of selling them on quitting.
Yet he was just as resolved now as before the attack. This thing must be stopped. It was never too late to try. The rain was roaring upon the roof, a full-fledged cloudburst. They would never expect him in a flood like that. They would be inside, and expecting everyone else to be there, too. If he circled around and came down the canyon, it would be the best chance. If they were keeping watch at all, it would be from this direction.
Sharon was outside when she saw the rain coming, and she waited for it, liking the cool air. Over the distant mountains across the valley there were vivid streaks of lightning. It was already storming there, and a frightful storm by all appearances.
She was alone, and glad of it. Mary had wanted her to come to the Collins house, where several of the women had gathered, but she knew she could never stand to be cooped up now. She was restless and worried. Her father was out there, and for all his courage and willingness to go, Tom Crockett was no fighting man. He was not like Bannon.
Strangely, now, she was little worried about Rock Bannon. He was hard, seemingly impervious to harm. Even now he might be over there across the valley. He might be killing her father, or her father might be shooting him. Twelve men had ridden away. Eight of them were settlers. Collins was dead and Dud Kitchen still too weak to ride, but the others had gone to a man. Mulholland, Satterfield, Pagones, Lamport, Purcell, Olsen and Greene. And, of course, her father.
the Tall Stranger (1982) Page 6
